Às vezes, eu minto. Minto por uma necessidade quase física de esconder o que transborda, porque a verdade, essa coisa nua, costuma assustar os desatentos. Mas a realidade é que eu tenho fome de conversas profundas, daquelas que arranham a superfície e chegam no osso da alma. O que me fere, o que me gela, é a indiferença. A indiferença é um deserto onde nada cresce, e eu sou feita de urgências. Eu amo o amor, não o amor das palavras bonitas, mas o amor que é ato, que é presença. Sinto um deslumbramento quase infantil por rir muito, por … Continue reading Fome

The road is long and it is dusty, and we have a far way to go. We are a people who love to wage war. It does not matter that we have no rifles; we arm ourselves with nothing but opinions. We feel we are entitled to them. It is a heavy entitlement, and we seldom sacrifice it for the sake of peace. We wield these opinions like daggers. We move in close and we cut little slivers of truth from one another. We keep cutting until the floor is wet and we are all of us bleeding out in … Continue reading The Long Way to Go

It is a hunger, perhaps, an unstoppable, vertical will to unfasten the world. I find myself wanting to open every door, not to enter, but to let the outside in. I would turn on all the lights until the shadows have nowhere left to hide, and then, with a finality that feels like birth, I would retire the keys. Why lock what has finally become infinite? I wish to dedicate each fragment of time to the creation of waves—great, rhythmic swells of perplexity. Not to confuse, but to drown the certainties that keep us heavy. To alleviate the weight of … Continue reading A Hunger for Open Doors

Lorsque le printemps se mouille par l’odeur de ta présence, ce n’est pas seulement une saison qui change; c’est le monde entier qui, dans un spasme de lumière, renaît avec toi. Je ne comprends pas le printemps, je le suis. Les bourgeons se dressent fièrement, de cette fierté sauvage et muette, pour saluer leur muse. Ils ne regardent pas, ils sont le regard. Et la brise, cette chose impalpable, semble murmurer ton nom, non pas comme un mot, mais como un souffle qui me traverse les os. La terre est encore humide, lourde des dernières neiges qui n’en finissent pas … Continue reading Le Verdissement de l’Être

The air between us is no longer air; it is a thick, pulsating waiting. You touch me, and the world—that heavy, external thing—simply ceases to exist. There is only the Skin’s Conversation, a silent symphony played on the nerves, unfolding in whispers that the ears cannot hear but the soul drinks greedily. It is a tactile poetry that transcends the poverty of language. After all, what is a word? A mere shell. But this? This is the meat of the fruit. Every caress is a sentence, a question asked in the dark; every pressure is a punctuation, a comma where … Continue reading A Grammar of Touch